


League of Extraordinary Musketeers

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Three Musketeers (2011 Anderson)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: The Three Musketeers (2011) fusion with League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, featuring Athos as Dorian Gray, Aramis the vampire, and Porthos who has a raging alternate personality.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I finally watched the 2011 film of The Three Musketeers and my muse promptly gave me...this. The movie had League of Extraordinary Gentlemen vibes, what can I say? This is just an introductory one shot to dabble in the idea. I have no idea whether I'll end up writing more (she says even though another one shot idea kept her awake last night), but if I do, I'll add them to this fic as a sort of collection.

LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY MUSKETEERS

"Impolite Company"

A brisk wind whipped over the roof of the Louvre, thwacking Aramis's Stygian black cloak and billowing it up around him. The hood pulled down over most of his face was barely ruffled, his features wreathed in shadow against the milky full moon. In contrast, bright golden light blazed forth from the floor-to-ceiling glass panes that framed the magnificent ballroom directly beneath the perch. Muted music wafted up.

"How come we never get invited to the parties?" Porthos groused, one boot planted firmly on the edge of the roof, arm crossed over his thigh.

"We aren't polite company," Aramis replied, voice pitched low enough it was barely carried on the air. He fingered his gold crucifix in his gloved hand.

"Hey now," Porthos said, affronted. "I'm charming enough." He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his embroidered coat and puffed his chest out.

Athos stepped up between them, sharp gaze narrowed on the gardens below. "They are here."

The three musketeers all turned their attention to the line of hedges across the expanse of grass and gravel paths. Nothing moved. But a shadow flitted between shrubs, swift like a phantom, and only their keen senses detected the subtle displacement of light and air. Another shadow darted out from the cover of foliage, followed by another, and another. Waxy moonlight caught the multiple figures dressed in black from head to toe with gleaming masks over their faces. The Obsidian Order had sent their best assassins to eliminate the King of France. Which, of course, the three could not allow.

Athos and Porthos moved away to make their way down from the roof, while Aramis merely stepped off the ledge. His cloak flapped around him like preternatural wings, and his boots landed on the gravel with nothing but the softest swish. The first assassin to almost reach the doors of the palace skidded to a stunned stop.

"You will go no further," Aramis intoned.

The intruder recovered quickly and drew his blade with barely a sound. Aramis tossed his cloak off and whipped out his sword; the two lunged simultaneously, the clang of steel pealing across the garden. The music upstairs, however, completely drowned it out to those oblivious party-goers inside.

Aramis parried and riposted, his opponent equally as deft and skilled as him. It was rare to encounter a worthy foe, and deep down he relished it.

Athos strode out from the side just as another wave of assassins reached the edge of the palace. They, too, were barred from entry. Athos exchanged no warnings with them, merely drew his twin crossbows from their sheaths at his back and shot down two immediately. He then tossed the weapons aside and drew his blades to engage the rest. Porthos joined them a moment later from the opposite end.

The clash of swords created its own musical chorus that competed with the crescendoing violins from the party upstairs. Together, the three musketeers effectively thwarted a single assassin from slipping past them and into the palace. The enemy must have been growing desperate. A crack of thunder rent the night, and Athos staggered back a step from the force of the impact. He glanced down at the hole in his chest, then back up at the masked man who had shot him. The feeling of lead punching its way through his flesh was never comfortable, but already the bullet had disintegrated. Athos brought his other hand up to absently flick away the smattering of ash that was all that remained of his "wound." The assassin who'd shot him stumbled backward, terrified eyes peering out through the holes of his mask. Athos closed the distance and swiftly ran him through.

Aramis finished the last of his opponents, and they both turned toward where Porthos was gleefully fighting four masked men. And then four more charged out from the hedges, and with overwhelming numbers, they crashed upon Porthos like a tide of shadows, finally bearing the large musketeer down to the ground. For a moment, he appeared to have been swallowed whole, but then a beastly roar rocked the night, and suddenly the men were being thrown several feet through the air. A massive, hulking creature rose up from the center. One of the assassins at its feet yelped and tried to scramble away, but the beast knocked him aside with its meaty arm. It grabbed the last assassin still crawling by the leg and swung him around above its head before releasing him to go sailing over the garden and crashing into the far hedges.

Porthos turned a feral grin toward Athos and Aramis, the brown eyes the only semblance this manifestation shared with his human counterpart. The two musketeers exchanged a dry look and Athos started forward toward their beastly friend.

"Is that all of them?" he asked, sounding bored.

A figure suddenly snaked up behind Aramis and slipped a knife under his chin. "Not all of us," the assassin spat.

Aramis held perfectly still, the blade nicking the flesh of his throat. Porthos growled and shuffled menacingly.

"Drop your weapons," the assassin snapped, pressing the blade closer to Aramis's jugular.

Athos tossed his sword onto the ground. "My large friend here is a weapon," he said blandly. "I'm not clear on what you want him to do—"

"Get down on the ground!"

Athos shifted his gaze to the assassin's hostage. "Aramis," he said, again in that bored tone.

Aramis's gaze went distant, his eyes swirling into a shade of crimson. Quick as lightning, he twisted out of the assassin's grip and was suddenly behind the man, plunging fangs into the soft tissue of his neck. The assassin jerked and let out a gargling cry before Aramis ripped his throat out. The body dropped, leaving Aramis standing there with blood splattered across his face, matching the color of his eyes. He touched gloved fingers to his stained lips, then bowed his head and clasped his crucifix, whispering a prayer for forgiveness.

"Now that is the last of them," Athos declared, sweeping his gaze around the carnage. And still the party went on inside with no one the wiser.

When Aramis finished his prayer, he straightened, his eyes returning to soft brown. His face was still painted in vermillion splashes. He picked up his sword and pointed the tip at Porthos's shredded coat hanging about his brutish muscles in tatters. "This is why we are not polite company."

The beast side of their friend sneered in response, but a moment later he began to jerk and contort, abnormal size and bulk somehow reducing back to the man they knew.

Porthos was left panting, but after he caught his breath, he shook out his arms and grimaced at the flaps of fabric hanging about them. "Damn it, now I need a new coat," he lamented. "Again."

"As do I." Athos poked a finger through the hole in his garments. Being immortal and invincible was good for battle, but not so good on the wardrobe. Ah well, their handler could afford to purchase them new ones. It was, after all, the least that could be done in appreciation for protecting the King and France.

Porthos paused and raised a finger heavenward. "Hear that? A waltz. I know how to waltz." He cast another despondent look at his shredded clothing.

"What should we do with this mess?" Aramis asked as he pulled out a handkerchief and began to wipe the blood off his face.

"We did the saving; someone else can do the cleaning," Athos replied, retrieving his weapons and tucking them securely into their sheaths. "Wine?"

"You know I'm always thirsty after a change," Porthos said.

Aramis grimaced in self-recrimination. "I am…sated."

Athos clapped him on the shoulder. "Just a little to cleanse your palate, then. And more for me."

"Hey, why don't I get his share? I'm drinking for two."

Athos shot Porthos a wry look. "There is plenty to go around."

Their service to France paid well indeed.


	2. Blood and Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another dabble. And is it any surprise I found a way to whump Aramis when he's an immortal vampire? Nooope. Also, d'Artagnan is totally Tom Sawyer, but how he came to be with our intrepid heroes in this AU I do not know. A story for another time.

LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY MUSKETEERS

"Blood and Water"

The door creaked loudly as Aramis pushed it open, shrewd gaze sweeping over the mostly empty storehouse. The air was stale, suggesting it wasn't used much anymore. The best place for a clandestine meeting, then.

He stepped inside, easing the door shut behind him, and folded the hood of his cloak back as he strode toward the center of the room. While his contact wasn't in his immediate line of sight, Aramis could smell him, could hear the pulse of blood in mortal veins. Aramis passed a stack of crates piled high and turned to face the man he'd come to meet, one Reyneke Edelman, who was in possession of some vital intelligence for France. He had sent word through various channels that he would pass on this information, but in person, and to Aramis only. The German operative seemed a mite paranoid.

He reminded Aramis of Porthos—broad shoulders, sturdy build, short hair. A scar bisected the entire left side of his face, carving a trench through his beard. Like Aramis, he was dressed in all black, even had a high collar that went up nearly to his ears, though his was lined with small metallic spikes.

"You are Aramis?" he asked, voice thickly accented.

"I am. Edelman?"

The German flicked his gaze down toward Aramis's chest, brow quirking in almost a flash of disgust. All Aramis had was his crucifix. Perhaps this man held a certain hatred for God.

"You came alone?" the man checked.

"I did," Aramis confirmed. To the meeting, anyway. His partners had of course accompanied him to the small town on the border. It'd been a good excuse to get their new young protege out for some sights and training.

Edelman moved toward another large crate where a bottle of wine and two goblets were set out. He picked up the bottle and poured the dark red wine into the cups, then offered one to Aramis, who held up a gloved hand in polite refusal.

"No, thank you."

Edelman regarded him austerely. "I do not trust a man who does not drink."

Aramis almost sighed. While wine was not his _preferred_ sustenance, neither did it bother him to imbibe it. He accepted the goblet and took a sip. Edelman was watching him very carefully as he drank from his own cup. Aramis took another swig to hopefully satisfy his inane expectations, then opened his mouth to suggest they get on with business, but a sizzling feeling began to burble in his gut. It fizzled up into his throat, making his eyes blow wide in shock and confusion.

Edelman was grinning. "The wine masked the holy water better than I anticipated. I thought you would start choking at the first sip."

Aramis stared at him in horror as the fire inside him turned to acid. He stumbled, his goblet dropping from lax fingers to splatter its tainted contents across the floor. He tried to straighten, tried to draw his sword, but scorching pain ripped through his abdomen and he doubled over in agony. Edelman loomed over him, a malicious leer contorting his features. Aramis's mouth moved soundlessly, trying to ask _why_ … _how_? But his vocal cords were burning away.

"I know what you are," Edelman sneered as Aramis fell onto his side, curling in on himself. "Abomination," he spat. Edelman unbuckled the front of his coat, revealing an entire host of weapons secured in the flaps—crossbows, wooden stakes, and vials of clear liquid that must have been more holy water. This man was a vampire hunter.

Edelman drew one of his many weapons, and Aramis was helpless to stop him.

.o.0.o.

Athos poured himself another cup of mead and knocked back a long drag.

D'Artagnan's brows rose dubiously. "How many is that now?"

Athos slammed the empty tankard back on the table. "It takes an inordinate amount to get me drunk," he replied ruefully. One of the more unfortunate side effects of having one's vices transferred to a painting. Although, escaping the hangover was certainly of benefit.

He rose from the table tucked into the corner of the tavern and went to order another round of drinks for the three of them as they awaited Aramis's return with whatever valuable information this spy had to give them.

"I'm tellin' you, I's seen 'im," a man was saying earnestly a few tables over. "He's in town."

The man he was with scoffed. "You've never even met 'im."

"I know what he looks like," the first insisted. "He's a legend!"

Athos paid them no mind as he brought the drinks back. D'Artagnan, however, seemed intrigued.

"Who do you suppose they're talking about?" he mused out loud.

Porthos leaned back in his chair, puffing his chest out. "Me, of course." He glanced around the large support beam that he was sitting behind to get a look at the gossipers. "We're famous, you know."

D'Artagnan shook his head with a simultaneous eye roll. "Doesn't your work depend on shadows and secrecy?"

"And reputation."

The men at the other table kept talking loudly.

"Well, if it is him, then why do you suppose he's here? We've had no vampire sightings in over a year."

Athos straightened at that, his gaze meeting Porthos's as they both skidded their chairs back in order to see these men.

"Excuse me," Athos interrupted. "We couldn't help but overhear…of whom are you speaking?"

"The vampire hunter," the first man said eagerly, enthused to have an attentive audience.

"There have been many vampire hunters," Athos replied blandly while inside his gut was beginning to churn with a bad feeling.

"He's famous in Germany. Killed over a hundred, they say."

The man's companion snorted and rolled his eyes.

Athos exchanged another tense look with Porthos. "And you say you've seen him in town?"

"Yup. Spotted him yesterday. Maybe he's passin' through, maybe he's on a hunt—"

Athos rose swiftly from his seat, as did Porthos. D'Artagnan cast a confused look at the both of them before clambering to his feet as well.

"You worried about Aramis?" the boy asked.

"Keep your voice down," Porthos hissed as the three of them made their way out of the tavern.

"The contact Aramis was to meet is German," Athos said. "And the man was insistent Aramis come alone."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "You don't think…"

"It can't hurt to make a pass by the rendezvous," Athos answered. "It was on the edge of town?"

"Yeah," Porthos replied, pushing forward to lead the way.

With each step down the darkened streets, the stone in Athos's gut grew heavier. One of them should have come along after all, just to keep watch for trouble. It was just that they were all so used to trouble being no match for them.

The row of storehouses came into view, but only one had faint light emanating from within. The musketeers crept up to the door and stopped to listen. Distressed sounds were coming from inside, and Porthos wasted no time kicking in the door. Athos whipped out his daggers and stormed through. A man armed to the teeth with weapons meant for vampires was standing over Aramis, who was writhing on the ground.

Athos immediately flicked his wrist and sent one of his knives flying through the air. The blade hit the hunter's chest but didn't penetrate to the hilt as it should have; he was probably wearing armor. Still, he grunted and stumbled backward, gaze snapping their direction. Before Athos could throw his second knife, Porthos charged forward with a raging bellow, slamming right into the hunter and propelling him through a large wooden crate. Porthos stomped over the broken pieces and picked the hunter up by the back of his long coat, then swung him around to crash head first into a support beam. The crack of wood and bone echoed sharply.

"Um, guys?" d'Artagnan said worriedly.

Athos turned to find him kneeling next to Aramis, hand hovering over the musketeer's shoulder as he convulsed with threadbare choking sounds. Smoke was sizzling up past his lips.

"What's wrong with him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Athos dropped down beside Aramis and gripped his shoulder. The man's eyes were wide and unseeing, his jerky movements gradually petering out.

Porthos knelt down next to them and picked up a goblet off the floor. "Smells like wine. There's no poison that would hurt him, though."

Athos went rigid and twisted around to search the myriad of items that had fallen loose from the hunter's coat in the scuffle. He snatched up a vial of clear liquid. "Dear God."

"What?" d'Artagnan pressed.

"Holy water," Porthos answered for him with a growl.

Both of them turned their attention to Aramis, whose eyes were rolling back as he finally fell completely still.

"We must get him out of here," Athos said. He reached for the crucifix draped over Aramis's arm and yanked it off his neck to prevent any accidental contact with flesh while they moved him, which Aramis most surely did not need. Athos tucked the treasured item in his pocket for safe keeping.

Porthos took hold of Aramis's arm and heaved him up over his shoulder. Athos cast one last look at the dead vampire hunter before they quickly vacated the premises and made their way back to the inn they were staying at.

Fortunately, no one paid them any mind. They were just a couple of folks carrying home their drunk companion from a night out carousing.

Once they were safely back in their room, Porthos laid Aramis on one of the beds and began to divest him of his gloves and coat. The damage wasn't external, though, and there was no mortal medicine they could administer to combat this type of poison unique only to one of his ilk. The three of them stood back, gazing down at the unnaturally still figure. Aramis's pallor was white as porcelain.

"Athos," Porthos said, voice wrought with evident fear. "What if he's… _dead_ dead? What if that bastard actually killed him?"

"He is not _dead_ dead," Athos responded.

"How can we be sure? It's not like he had a pulse or breath to begin with."

"Slain vampires shrivel into husks."

"Really?" the young Gascon spoke up. "I mean, you've slain vampires? I would've thought with…" He gestured vaguely at their undead friend.

"Most do not share our padre's morals," Athos said. "But yes, before I knew him, I had slain some vampires."

They fell silent, gazes still fixed on their companion, who gave no indication of returning awareness and, in every way, resembled an actual corpse.

"He will need to drink when he wakes," Athos stated.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened at that. "What? From one of us?"

Athos shrugged out of his coat and began to roll up his sleeve.

D'Artagnan spluttered in disbelief. "Athos, you can't."

"I am immortal, remember? He can take as much as he needs and it won't harm me."

Athos moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Even through the fabric of Aramis's clothes, he could feel how icy the man was. The vampire was naturally cold without the warmth of pulsing blood in his veins, but this was a chill of death on his doorstep. If he did not drink soon, he might not recover.

Athos drew his dagger from his belt and cut a slice across the inside of his forearm. The laceration healed almost instantly, but enough blood had welled up to hopefully rouse Aramis from this hibernation. Athos held his arm out near Aramis's face.

"Come on, padre," Porthos muttered. "Show some teeth."

At first, nothing happened. Then Aramis's throat began to work, instinct stirring before consciousness did. Athos pressed his arm against pale lips, dribbling his blood into Aramis's mouth. Aramis's eyes snapped open, his irises solid black with delirium as he reflexively sank his fangs into soft flesh. Athos grimaced at the sharp pain, followed by the fire of desperate sucking. He could bear it, though, as he knew it was nothing compared to the wild frenzy of thirst Aramis must be experiencing.

Athos raised his free hand and cupped the back of his friend's head, pulling him closer as Aramis continued to drink and drink. Athos felt a wash of dizziness, though it swiftly vanished. Another followed, his invincibility chasing the effects of blood loss in a repetitive cycle. The frantic gulps gradually eased into steady swallows.

It was several minutes before Aramis came back to himself and finally retracted his fangs from Athos's arm. Gleaming red eyes blinked rapidly up at him, that look of self-recrimination and guilt that always followed a feeding clear upon his face.

Athos gently laid his head back against the pillow. "Better?"

Aramis closed his eyes and nodded. He was still pale, a pallor that stood out starkly against the crimson blood painted across his lips. "Th- th—" he rasped, voice shredded.

Athos laid a hand on his arm. "It's alright, don't try to speak yet. You ingested holy water?"

Aramis nodded, eyes still screwed shut in pain. "Wi…"

"The wine," Porthos finished. "We figured. It's alright, that hunter won't be coming after you again."

Aramis didn't acknowledge that, just kept his eyes closed as his body trembled from the trauma it had endured.

"We'll get you some fresh blood," Athos promised.

"I'll go," Porthos said and headed out the door.

Athos remained sitting on the edge of the bed, a steady, solid presence for their friend.

"I don't understand," d'Artagnan said quietly. "I've seen him drink pig's blood; why doesn't he just, you know, always feed off of you?"

"There's something different about my blood, so Aramis says," Athos replied, voice pitched equally low. If Aramis was lucid enough, he would still hear them, though he seemed in and out again. "Like it's watered down," Athos went on. "Probably something to do with my immortality. It doesn't nourish him like fresh, mortal blood does, even animal blood. But in a pinch, it has its uses."

Like bringing him back from the brink of annihilation. Another benefit to Athos's Faustian deal. Yet for all the ways he was indestructible, he still had vulnerabilities. Tonight was a harsh reminder of that.

"So," d'Artagnan continued, "after Porthos gets back with some fresh stuff, he'll be okay?"

Athos nodded as he removed Aramis's crucifix from his pocket to place on the bedside table. He would be all right; they looked after each other.


End file.
